John's Fall
by Thorn17
Summary: Sherlock has literally dragged John along on their next case; pursuing a murderer through a derelict building. Somehow, Sherlock and John are separated, inadvertently placing the doctor in danger, as the detective has so far failed to deduce that the murderer doesn't have his sights set on him, but on his blogger.
1. Chapter 1

Three hours ago, John had resigned himself to a normal night in at Baker Street, with 'normal' being defined as having no date to go to, and therefore having to tolerate a grumpy Sherlock because John had disposed of the latest experiment he had found in the fridge. The doctor didn't have a problem with Sherlock's experiments per se, but he drew the line at finding decomposing body parts in food preparation or storage areas. Sherlock seemed to forget sometimes that just because he didn't eat, it didn't mean that his flatmate didn't either.

Therefore, when John found himself being dragged out of the front door and into a waiting cab by said detective, whose grumpiness had morphed into glee because a case had taken an interesting development, the doctor didn't initially know whether or not to be grateful that his night had ceased being 'normal'. Even now, as he stood beside Sherlock, chasing the latest aspiring criminal mastermind through a dingy derelict block of flats, he still hadn't quite made up his mind. As loath as John was to admit it, Mycroft had been right; the doctor missed the adrenaline rush that dangerous life-or-death situations brought, missed the feeling of being needed by someone in the way that Sherlock needed him, though the detective would never say that in so many words.

Somehow, having become absorbed in his thoughts, John belatedly realised that he had managed to become separated from Sherlock, and lost in the process. He withdrew his gun from where it had been carefully tucked inside his jacket, made sure that the safety lock was off in case he needed to defend himself against an assailant, and began to tentatively edge around the perimeter of the room that he found himself in.

"Sherlock!" he whispered into the overwhelming silence, but there was no answer. He hadn't really expected one, but it had been worth a try. Sherlock skulked around in such dark clothing - especially his almost-trademark long coat that displayed his cheekbones - that it would have been easy for the detective to camouflage himself in the surroundings. Unfortunately, John was wearing the same green jacket that he had taken to Baskerville, meaning that if he strayed into any light, his location would be blatantly visible. The doctor could only hope that his call hadn't alerted the criminal - a murderer called James Winter - to his whereabouts.

"Good evening, Doctor Watson," came a disembodied voice from the darkness. The way in which the greeting had been phrased, and the gruff voice in which it had been spoken in, immediately alerted John to the fact that the person who had found him wasn't Sherlock, much to his chagrin. Would Winter still have found him so quickly if he had been strong, and remained quiet? The doctor aimed his gun in the direction that he thought the voice had originated from, but the sound had bounced and echoed off the bare walls in the unfurnished room, making it difficult to pinpoint an accurate location.

"Show yourself, Winter!"

Much too late, John heard a chuckle behind him. "As you wish, Doctor Watson."

Before the doctor could pivot around to face his attacker, James Winter had pressed a cloth coated in a sweet-smelling, sleep-inducing substance over John's nose and mouth, causing him to fall the floor unconscious after struggling for a few seconds. His gun clattered to the floor as his grasp slackened, and Winter wasted no time in stooping down to pick it up. "Now then, Doctor Watson. What am I going to do with you?" he said menacingly, already knowing what he had in store for the doctor.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: Thank you so much to everyone for reading, following, adding the story to favourites and reviewing this story so far!**

"John? John? John?!"

Sherlock called the doctor's name as he tore through the building, searching for his flatmate. The darkness had little effect on Sherlock's ability to see, for his eyes had adjusted long ago and he was used to finding his way around in the dark for one case or another. A short while ago, the detective had been momentarily distracted by the sight of flashing blue lights pulling up at the side of the building, and in straying over to the window in the hope that it was Lestrade arriving, only to discover instead that it was a convoy of fire engines for which Sherlock could see no imminent need, he had managed to become separated from John, who had presumably carried on pursuing James Winter.

"I'm afraid Doctor Watson is no longer with us, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock froze on the spot. He knew _exactly _who that voice belonged to. "Show yourself, Winter."

"Funny, Doctor Watson said exactly the same thing when I caught up with _him_."

James Winter emerged from the darkness in a particularly dramatic fashion, having purposely given himself an almost ethereal look by shining a torch underneath his chin, the beam of light illuminating his face but leaving the rest of his body hidden. His flair for amateur dramatics put those of Mycroft and Sherlock to shame.

Sherlock took note of Winter's words. 'Caught up with John' implied that Winter had deliberately sought John out, and had chosen to make his presence known to the doctor, rather than allowing said doctor to stumble upon his whereabouts. This was something new. Criminals on the run didn't usually go out of their way to make themselves known to their pursuers, unless...

"Stupid, stupid! Obvious!" murmured Sherlock angrily under his breath. "It was a trap. You provided me with a clue to your whereabouts in order to _lure_ us here, not give yourself up."

James Winter smirked. "Good, you've finally worked it out. It took you a bit longer than I had anticipated. I was right though; your performance is significantly weakened by your attachment to Doctor Watson, which caused you to prioritize locating _him_ over locating _me_."

Sherlock ignored that jibe. It wasn't important. "What have you done with John?"

"I've done nothing to John. It's more a matter of what John has done to himself. You see, Mr Holmes, I need you for something, something for which Doctor Watson would be an unnecessary spare part. He would have attempted to meddle with what I have planned for you. He would have tried to rescue you, which I simply couldn't allow because you are my leverage, if you like, for getting out of the country safely. I don't think your dear big brother would allow anything to happen to you, would he? You are my most valuable bargaining chip, because I doubt that Mycroft Holmes would endeavor to save Doctor Watson's life with such fervor."

"Dull," said Sherlock, rolling his eyes at the predictability of Winter's motives, while the cogs within his mind palace began to whir as they tried to deduce what had happened to John. The doctor must have been coerced into something by Winter, must have been given some motivation to harm himself, because otherwise John was perfectly capable of defending himself against Winter, especially since he had been armed with his gun.

"Tut tut, Mr Holmes, I hadn't finished. Doctor Watson, therefore, was disposable, as he was of no use to me. His death was non-negotiable. Yours is."

Sherlock sighed impatiently. "I'm no use to you dead, so stop trying to sound threatening. Now, I know that you've killed three men in America, and one man here in London. The question remains, therefore, as to why you've forced John to harm himself rather than do it yourself. You're obviously no stranger to taking the lives of innocent people, so why is John so different?"

"It seems that John is an exception to everybody's rules, not just yours. Either by accident or on purpose in order to manipulate him, you've let John see snippets of you that you thought you'd managed to lock away for ever. Emotional, weak little segments of the great Sherlock Holmes, the man who keeps everybody at a safe distance, even his own brother, because he's witnessed the devastation that emotions can cause firsthand. Haven't you, Sherlock?"

"Stop it," Sherlock barked, clenching his fists. Now was not the time to go delving into his past. He was more concerned with his future, and whether or not John would still be a part of it. "Where is John?" he demanded. "_Tell me!_"

Winter smirked, and reached for something in his pocket. Sherlock altered his stance into a fighting stance. "I can do better than that, Mr Holmes. I can _show_ you."


	3. Chapter 3

James Winter chuckled as he withdrew a smartphone from his pocket, and waggled it in front of Sherlock. "Calm down, Mr Holmes, I'm not going to hurt you."

Sherlock scoffed. "Obviously." Somebody had tried to use a smartphone to coerce or harm both the detective and the doctor before, and it hadn't worked out very well for the party involved, namely Moriarty. Sherlock relaxed his stance, not feeling remotely perturbed about his apparent overreaction to what had proved to be an anticlimax, having expected Winter to draw a weapon, but having been met with a communications device instead. Logically, it was always better to expect a physical attack and be ready to react, rather than _not_ anticipating a physical altercation only to find yourself taken aback, and thereby at a disadvantage. "I'm more concerned about what you've..."

"About what I've done to John, or what I've made John do. Yes, _I know_, you've already mentioned it once or twice," interrupted Winter sarcastically, looking at the detective in a manner that was almost pitying, and rolling his eyes. "I'm beginning to feel unloved, Mr Holmes. There were times when nothing would stop the great Sherlock Holmes from giving a criminal of my calibre his full attention. Now, I find myself being cast aside in favour of some ordinary idiot! It's a good job that Doctor Watson is no longer with us, otherwise I'd dispose of him right now, just for that." Winter paused a second before continuing, a malicious smile forming on his face. "So, do you want to know what's happened to your precious doctor, Mr Holmes?"

Sherlock nodded tersely. "Even in this limited light, I can see that the phone you're currently holding isn't John's, and it isn't yours because you're not stupid enough to use your own phone, especially a smartphone with GPS enabled, because it would alert the police to your whereabouts. Therefore, whatever has happened to John has either been caused by, or recorded on, the phone that you're currently holding. You're a man - a murderer - who likes to keep trophies to remind him of his victims - it was one of the reasons that your identity was so easy deduce in the first place - and so it seems only logical that there is a file of some description on that phone which relates to John. A video file of what has happened to him, most likely, judging by the angle that you've titled the phone screen away from you in order to be able to see the display without the light from your torch being reflected in it."

"You're right, Mr Holmes. You're completely right! But do you know something, Mr Holmes?" Winter teased mischievously, with the futile hope of provoking a reaction from Sherlock. "In a minute, when you see what's happened to your dear Doctor Watson, _you're going to wish that you were very, very wrong_."


	4. Chapter 4

"Hand it over, Winter," snarled Sherlock, holding out his palm ready to receive the smartphone, whilst ignoring the fact that the outstretched extremity was trembling. The rational side of Sherlock's brain, the part that was able to pretend like it didn't feel as if was being torn apart at the mere thought of John coming to harm, told him that attacking Winter while he held the only clue to the doctor's whereabouts was unwise. Otherwise, the detective would have tackled Winter to the floor, and after a few minutes of exerting his martial arts knowledge upon the murderer, Winter would fare no better than the taxi driver from 'A Study In Pink'. Namely, he would be dead on the floor, and there would be no possibility that the crime could be linked to Sherlock. "Give me the phone. _Now!_"

"Your brother would be appalled at your lack of manners, Sherlock," grinned Winter knowingly, but he obliged nevertheless, evidently eager to brag about and marvel at his own intelligence for having maneuvered Sherlock and John like puppets.

As soon as Sherlock acquired the smartphone and saw that the file was ready to be viewed, he didn't hesitate to click the 'play' button, even though he felt physically sick at what he was about to watch. Enough time had been wasted by Winter's little games. The sooner he saw for himself what had happened to John, where he was being held or tortured, then the sooner Sherlock's keen intellect could detect a hidden clue in the file that no ordinary person would be able to spot, but would prove to be more than ample assistance in enabling him to deduce the doctor's whereabouts.

Unfortunately, as soon as the images on the screen began to move, it became all-too clear that even the genius intellect of a Holmes could do nothing to help John now. The so-called sociopathic detective knew what was coming, knew what he was about to watch John do, knew that it was all his fault and that he himself was to blame for what was going to happen to John, and then everything else Sherlock knew ceased to exist.

The consecutive realisations literally brought his world crashing down around him, filling his mind with everything and nothing but John at the same time. It was as if he could hear every single sound that had been stored in the 'audio' section of his mind palace begin to play simultaneously. The noise deafened him, but still he could focus on nothing except the first chilling images that were shown on the video.

The images showed John, facing the camera and looking physically unharmed, but balancing precariously on the edge of the rooftop of the block they were currently in. Judging from the camera angle, Winter was stood behind the doctor, having positioned himself at least three metres away from the edge. Was he going to push John over the side of the building? No, that wasn't his modus operandi. _'I've done nothing to John. It's more a matter of what John has done to himself.'_ Winter's earlier words forced themselves to the forefront of the cacophony of sound in Sherlock's mind, and in that moment of pure clarity, the detective belatedly understood that it was a fall, not a push. John would fall, just as Sherlock had, except this time, there was no master plan for survival.

"John!" croaked Sherlock, unable to stop the sound from escaping despite knowing that his cry was futile. He was definitely watching a recording, and not a live feed. The time stamp on the file indicated that the events on the video had taken place around fifteen minutes ago. Had the events of the video been unfolding live, then Sherlock _might _have been able to stop them. He couldn't stop what had already happened, what _he_ had caused to happen.

_["I'm recording now, Doctor Watson. You might as well get on with it sooner or later. Tell Mr Holmes what you're going to do. He might not believe me if I tell him."_

_ John was facing the camera, speaking directly to Sherlock through it, instead of wasting his time arguing with Winter. John obviously didn't want to spend his last moments looking at a murderer. "Sherlock, listen to me. None of this is your fault. I don't want you thinking that it is. I don't know what he's going to tell you, but out of the choices I had, the ones that Winter gave me, this was the best one. There's no question about that." His voice was wavering, as if he was resolved to do what he must but something was still upsetting him._

_ Winter sighed off-screen, and John's gaze swiftly darted to him before returning to the camera, evidently having ascertained what Winter was going to say. "What Doctor Watson is trying to say, quite inarticulately I might add, is that a fall is owed, Mr Holmes, and Doctor Watson here is quite willing to settle the debt."_

_John shivered in the cool breeze and shifted his footing slightly, moving closer to the edge but never turning round to see the pavement that would cause his demise. A small part of Sherlock's brain told him this was unusual. John wasn't afraid of staring Death straight in the face. He had been a soldier, after all. John looked at the camera again, and Sherlock could tell from his eyes that the doctor was determined to carry through with whatever he had agreed with Winter. What could possibly have convinced the doctor, a man of strong principles, morals and ethics, to obey a murderer? "Winter says that if I don't jump, if I don't fall just as you did, then he'll shoot you. He stole my gun, and he'll use it to kill you, Sherlock, and I couldn't bear losing you a second time. For you to cheat Death once was improbable. Cheating it twice is impossible, even for somebody as remarkable as you. This time, you're going to have to lose me. But don't worry, Sherlock. You'll be alright, and that's all that matters. You'll be alive. You'll get through this. You're stronger than me. You don't need me anymore."]_

Sherlock had never heard anything as ludicrous as _that_ before in his life. The doctor _was_ needed - he would _always_ be needed - and by nobody more than Sherlock. Despite his shaky fingers, Sherlock managed paused the video. "You told him that you'd shoot me, all the while knowing that you'd never follow through with it," he spat venomously at Winter. "You'd never have followed through with your threat because I'm your leverage for safe passage out of the country."

Winter smirked, evidently pleased with the outcome. "Doctor Watson wasn't to know that though, was he?"


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: Apologies for how long it's taken me to update this story - as well as having had a busy few weeks, I also had problems uploading this chapter!**

For once in his life, Sherlock had no snide comment, no smart jibe or remark ready to respond with. His brilliant brain failed him, leaving him with nothing but a deafening silence, one which was even louder than the blare of ringing audio files in his mind palace. The silence drowned everything out completely, washing over anything and everything in its path to leave nothing but emptiness. Though his mind normally rebelled against this kind of stagnation, it was now refusing to function at all, in any way, shape or form, rebellious in nature or not. At the same time, the supposedly-sociopathic detective experienced an unbidden feeling of such helplessness, one such as he'd never felt before, even during the darkest points of his life, and there had certainly been quite a few of those. The loss of John was the darkest point yet. Sherlock felt sick, he felt cold, and he felt utterly defeated. What was the point in his intelligence if he couldn't use it to save the man he... well, the man who had stood by him through everything, no matter how crass or crude Sherlock had been, no matter how little he had deserved any sympathy or support.

Winter cleared his throat loudly, evidently bored of waiting for Sherlock to do or say something, or _anything _for that matter, and the sound consequently roused Sherlock from his dark thoughts. Whilst the detective had been lost to his mind, Winter had produced John's gun from somewhere, and was waggling it around as if it were simply a toy. A lump caught in Sherlock's throat as he registered the presence of the weapon. It wasn't that he found it particularly threatening - did Winter honestly expect Sherlock to believe that he would shoot him, given that he was his leverage for safe passage out of the country? - but the fact that it was the weapon that John had used to save Sherlock's life within forty-eight hours of meeting him, despite barely knowing the man, that really struck a chord with the detective.

"Sorry to interrupt whatever you're going misty-eyed over, but I _am _still here, you know, Mr Holmes. I don't particularly appreciate being ignored, especially after all the trouble I've gone to in order to get you here." Winter paused for a minute, and when Sherlock remained statuesque and unresponsive, he sighed and gestured towards the phone that the detective still held in his trembling hand. "Well, go on then. I didn't go to the trouble of recording it for you simply to ignore half of it, Mr Holmes. Aren't you going to finish watching the rest of it?"

Sherlock barely registered the comments - the silence was still much louder than any other sound, and any words that Winter spoke were unimportant now. The detective had no need to take heed of them, because nothing the man said would help John now, and this was the only reason that Sherlock had listened to Winter in the first place.

Adrenaline, combined with undescribable anger, seemed to flip a switch within the detective's brain, and it began to function again. This was the weakness of emotions, the proof that sentiment was a chemical defect found in the losing side, as the first thing Sherlock noted was that the right hemisphere of his brain - the one in control of regulating emotions, and such other tasks - was now dominating the left, logical hemisphere. This was something that had not happened to the detective in years, and it had been caused simply by his feelings for John. Sherlock was definitely on the losing side, as the detective's brain automatically supplied him with unbidden mental images of what John had done. _Done_, past tense_._ He didn't need to see the end of the video file, because Sherlock was sure that the images in his mind's eye were worse, more tortuous and gut-wrenching than those on the file. Having correctly assumed that Winter would force the detective to watch his 'fall', John would have made it as easy for Sherlock to bear as he could. However, the detective's mind would afford him no such courtesy.

_[John would have been stood upon the edge of the rooftop, preparing himself to step over the side. Like Sherlock, he would have looked down at the pavement, unafraid to look Death in the eye. Because John tended to be more sentimental than Sherlock, he would have probably been tempted to look around at the camera one more time, and offer some sort of reassuring gesture for Sherlock to see, but nothing he could think of would be able to accurately portray what he was thinking and feeling, and so he would have decide against turning around after all. If Winter taunted him, which was likely, he would have ignored it, as he would have been resigned to what he must do to protect his friend - or so he believed - just as Sherlock had been. John's limbs would have flailed as he fell through the air, having wasted no time in stepping over the side of the building after composing himself, for fear of somehow endangering Sherlock's life further. After coming into contact with the pavement, John's body would have trickled blood across the tarmac, lifeless eyes staring up at the sky, in a reenactment of what Sherlock had done, orchestrated by Winter.] _

Sherlock shook his head in an attempt to shatter and dismiss the horrifying images, but it was to no avail. The scenes looped around in his mind, playing over and over again, and all the while Sherlock was very much aware of the fact that he was watching his own 'death' as John had witnessed it before, the only difference being that the doctor's body had replaced the detective's, and vice versa. knew that, on the outside, he still looked like his normal, stoic self. Winter had no idea that the detective felt as though he was going to implode, or spontaneously combust. Sherlock was experiencing inner turmoil, with what little remained of his functioning mind already preoccupied with running two simultaneous task. The first was cataloguing all the ways, both traceable and untraceable, that he knew to kill a man of Winter's stature and abilities. Mycroft would clear up any trace of the crime. The second task was trying to repress the primal urges running through Sherlock's veins that made him want to lunge at Winter, to return the favour and destroy the man just as thoroughly as he had just destroyed Sherlock.

Having apparently interpreted Sherlock's head shake as a 'no' answer to his last question, a perturbed-looking Winter pulled a mock disapproving face that was extremely reminiscent of Moriarty. "Okay, forget _my_ feelings. What about Doctor Watson's? I'm sure that he would be _very_ disappointed to learn that you can't even be bothered to listen him one last time, to hear his final request, message, farewell, or whatever else you want to call it," drawled Winter, a malicious glint appearing in his eyes. "Oh wait, Mr Holmes, I forgot. Silly me! The _dead _don't get disappointed, do they?"

That was it. The final straw. Sherlock's resolve snapped as Winter made the mistake of trying to use John's feelings to manipulate the detective. Winter obviously had no understanding of the man he'd just murdered at all, and the callous nature of Winter's actions just made Sherlock's blood boil even more. John _wouldn't_ have been disappointed in Sherlock - he never had been really, despite their fights. John would have been understanding, and supportive, _and Winter had murdered such a wonderful man just to get Sherlock's attention_. Well, if Winter wanted the 'best' of Sherlock, he would certainly get it, but not in the way he was expecting. The very notion that Sherlock would _allow_ himself to become Winter's leverage after the man had wronged him to such an extent was truly ridiculous.

Realising that the smartphone that he still held in his trembling hands was preventing him from following his instincts - which urged him to lunge at Winter and hurt him, hurt him until the murderer was experiencing the same level of pain as Sherlock, and then, and _only _then, consider stopping - the snarling detective roughly shoved the smartphone in his coat pocket and continued with his intentions.

Sherlock assumed a fighting stance again, and virtually threw himself at Winter, nearly missing the look of surprise on the murderer's face. His brain immediately dismissed the threat of being shot, because Sherlock didn't think it plausible that Winter would shoot him even after the detective's attack. Winter would be stunned and shocked, but Sherlock had deduced that the murderer would still possess qualms about shooting him because of the detective's perceived value to those who knew of the Holmes brothers. It was as if the younger Holmes was a lot at auction, bought by one person and then sold on to make a profit, because everybody knew that if they 'possessed' him, Mycroft Holmes would outbid everybody and pay whatever sum was demanded of him if it ensured the safe return of his brother.

There was a rush of air and a _thud _as Sherlock's body collided with Winter's, knocking both men to the floor. Sherlock drew back his right fist, clenched tight for maximum impact, and repeatedly punched at Winter who lay trapped below him, venting his anger through a physical medium rather than an intellectual one for a change. The murderer responded by attempting to headbutt the detective, and to his credit, he nearly succeeded a couple of times, which was no easy feat when faced with Sherlock. In all the commotion, Sherlock lost track of the gun, which wasn't a wise move, given that he was emotionally compromised, and therefore his conclusions regarding Winter's motives and responses were more likely to be erroneous.

"Don't you bloody dare touch him!"

A third, disembodied voice called out in the darkness, causing a small part of Sherlock's brain that _wasn't_ focussed on pretty much obliterating Winter from the face of the Earth registered that this voice didn't just belong to _anybody_. It belonged to _John_. Butterflies began to flutter in Sherlock's stomach with hope, but his rational nature immediately began to shut those feelings down. John was dead. Winter had killed him because of Sherlock, the detective would never hear John's voice again, and so now he was in the middle of exacting his revenge. His emotion-saturated brain was struggling to come to a swift conclusion, experiencing problems deducing a plausible explanation from the evidence available. Normally, in extreme emotional circumstances, people experienced rare moments of logical clarity. For Sherlock, who spent most of his time exploring _logical_ circumstances, he experienced the opposite, and was surprised at how little his conclusion bothered him. If anything, he felt relieved, if not a little annoyed at the same time. Relieved because it meant that he was with John again, but annoyed at _how_ they had been reunited.

Sherlock realised that if he was hearing a voice that was undoubtedly coming from beyond the grave, because there was no way that John could have survived a fall like that without a plan - just as Sherlock had done - and the voice was speaking with such clarity, even if the words were a little unexpected for a reunion between doctor and detective, then it could only mean one thing.

Sherlock had been wrong. Winter had indeed shot him. Fatally, it would seem.


	6. Chapter 6

_Bleep. Bleep. Bleep. Bleep. Bleep. Bleep. Bleep. Bleep._

Sherlock groaned as he was roused from his slumber by the incessant bleeping of an alarm clock. Lethargically, he tried to roll onto the other side of his bed and reach an arm out in an attempt to silence the infernal thing. Sherlock didn't sleep very often, but when he did, he didn't appreciate being woken up before his body was ready. However, his arm didn't get very far in achieving its goal before it was yanked back by something, causing a pain to shoot up his arm. He winced, and tried to sit up as he opened his eyes to ascertain what the problem was. Sitting up proved to be impossible, too.

Sherlock frowned, and though his eyes were sticky with rheum, he eventually managed to get them to open. Instead of being met with the sight of his bedroom at Baker Street, Sherlock instead found himself looking around a completely different room entirely. His surroundings were entirely new to him; he'd never been in this room before. A mind as meticulous as his would remember such things. Everything about the room screamed 'private hospital room' to the detective, but his mind was still a little too sleepy to determine _why_ he was there, and so he focussed on examining his current predicament.

The detective was laying in a standard hospital bed, with various wires and tubes sticking in and out of his body. He was also wearing an oxygen mask, and he seemed to be restrained by something. Handcuffs - had one of his enemies finally acted in a way that wasn't utterly predictable and managed to abduct him? Straps - had he been tied down for his own safety, to prevent further injury, or to protect the staff? Or had he just been asleep for far too long in the same position, and his joints had stiffened and seized up? Sherlock decided it was probably the latter, as his enemies wouldn't want him alive - and therefore they certainly wouldn't care for him in a hospital - and if he was a high risk patient, then there should have been a member of staff in the room with him.

The room itself was predominantly cream, with both cream walls and ceiling, though Sherlock suspected that they had originally been painted white, but it had faded and yellowed over time. The detective couldn't tell what colour the floor was; he couldn't move his head enough to see. The light in the room seemed particularly dazzling, but Sherlock reasoned that this was because his eyes had been shut - and therefore he had been sleeping - a long time, judging by the amount of rheum that had built up around his eyes.

After examining the basic features of the room, Sherlock decided to focus more on the specfics. It was like reading a book; he'd skim-read everything, and now he was reading it properly. He paid attention to detail this time, and discovered two new things about the room that he had somehow missed earlier, though this was probably because a) he wasn't looking for them, b) his mind was a lot more alert now than it had been a few minutes ago and c) they were in his peripheral vision, from which the rheum was only just beginning to clear. The first new thing was that the sound he'd originally mistaken for a ringing alarm clock was actually originating from a heart rate monitor; one of the many machines that he seemed to be hooked up to and monitored on. _Obvious_, Sherlock mentally chastised himself_. _The second sight was a lot more welcome than the first; Sherlock liked to be the observer in hospitals, not the one being observed. It was the sight of John - jumper-wearing, loyal John - snoring gently in an uncomfortable armchair to the right side of Sherlock's bed.

Sherlock smiled, and was just beginning to reach up to take his oxygen mask off in order to call John's name and wake him before, before his hand halted in mid-air. Something wasn't right here. Something was out of place. Then, belatedly, Sherlock's mind reawakened completely and he began to remember. He remembered _everything_ - Winter, the case, the abandoned building, the gun, the video file on the phone, the sight of John standing precariously on the edge of a tall building, about to jump with no plan of survival.

Suddenly, everything made sense. John was dead, and so was Sherlock. Winter had shot him, but the detective barely felt anything regarding that besides gratitude. He supposed that he should be annoyed with himself, or upset at the thought of his handful of friends grieving for him, or even disappointed that he'd been wrong about what Winter would do, but he just _wasn't_ experiencing any of that to a noticeable extent. He was still with John. They were still together. That was all that mattered. John hadn't left him behind, and Sherlock hadn't been forced to break both their hearts and leave John again. The detective believed that they called that a result. Whatever this was - whatever had happened to him, wherever they were and why - Sherlock would take it.

**Author's Note: Sorry it's taken me so long to update this story! I've been really busy, but updates should be a little more frequent now that everything's quietened down a bit. Don't worry, this isn't the last chapter of this story - there's still a couple more to come! Thank you to everyone who has reviewed/favourited/followed this story so far!**


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note: I apologise for not responding to those who reviewed the last chapter, but it was difficult to reply without revealing too much with regards to this chapter, and those that will follow it. However, thank you so much again to those who have reviewed/favourited/followed this story - I really appreciate the feedback! Sorry this is such a short update - the next chapter should be up within the next few days.**

The desire to speak to John, to apologise profusely to him for their current predicament, outweighed any remaining qualms that Sherlock currently had about where they were, why they were there, and all such other things of that nature. The detective didn't want to waste time running a mental diagnostic to determine the physical cause of his admittance into 'hospital' when his own doctor - and friend - sat only inches away. There was still so much that needed to be said, so much that needed to be discussed, and so many things that remained unknown.

For example, Sherlock was yet to deduce how John would respond to their situation. Did John blame Sherlock for what Winter had forced him to do? It _was_ Sherlock's fault, after all, wasn't it? Would he even blame Sherlock for dragging him along on the case, which was the root cause of their current predicament? This was all very unlikely, seeing as John thrived on the danger of their cases, and had absolved the detective of any blame or responsibility during his speech on that damn video file, but the mere possibility that John still _could _blame Sherlock had been planted in the latter's head now, and the uncertainty was still there.

Sherlock couldn't bear not knowing any more. If John was going to hate him for what Winter had done to them, having gained his inspiration for John's death from Sherlock himself, then the detective would rather know now so that he had as much time as possible to try and make amends. He reached up and tugged the oxygen mask from his face before he could change his mind.

"John," he rasped, his throat dry from a lack of fluids. He tried to gather some saliva in his mouth to swallow before trying again. "_John_," he repeated, only managing to be a little louder this time, but it was all that it took to rouse the doctor.

Immediately, John jolted awake with the shock of the sound, and within a further two seconds he was fully alert and scouring the room for signs of danger. Seemingly without conscious thought, he jumped up and positioned himself between Sherlock's bed and the entrance to the room, his stance clearly defensive. _A conditioned response clearly left over from his time in military service, alongside his innate caring nature which led him to pursue his chosen career, _Sherlock's mind supplied this information to help him make sense of John's reaction. At least this was a good sign - if John wanted to protect Sherlock, then surely he didn't hate him?

It was only when the doctor glanced down to make sure that Sherlock had remained unharmed whilst they had both been sleeping that John noticed that the detective was awake, and watching him intently, clearly surprised at how fluid the doctor's movements were given that his limbs and joints were undoubtedly achey from spending the night curled up in the uncomfortable hospital armchair. In truth, John barely registered the pain. His mind was preoccupied with other things.

"Hey, Sherlock," said John softly, smiling in the relief that was rapidly flooding his features. His eyes darted around Sherlock's face as he took in the detective's appearance, searching for any sign of pain or confusion in his eyes. "It's me. It's John. I'm here, it's okay. I can't begin to tell you how relieved I am to see you awake at last." _Don't be obvious, John. You don't need to tell me. It's written all over your face, _mused Sherlock, but he said nothing. For some reason, John's evident relief upon seeing that his best friend was alright suddenly made Sherlock feel ten times worse than he did already. He didn't deserve John's sympathy, or kindness, or anything but anger from the doctor at all really, not after what he'd done to him. Did he?

Apparently unaware of Sherlock's dilemma, John gently reached out with his left hand and took Sherlock's right in his own, careful not to catch any of the tubes and wires poking out of his best friend. Sherlock raised an eyebrow but didn't move his hand away, instead choosing to focus on the feel of the hand. It wasn't as cold as Sherlock had expected, given that they were both seemingly dead, and bodies cooled after death, but he reasoned that this was probably some kind of side effect or simulation provided by wherever they were. An afterlife of sorts, perhaps?

"John, I -"

"Mycroft's been going out of his mind with worry."

Although they spoke simultaneously, Sherlock heard John's words clearly and they hit him like a ton of bricks. "Mycroft?" the detective croaked, a wave of fresh nausea beginning to wash over him at the very thought of Mycroft having died too. He didn't always get on with his infuriatingly over-protective brother, but the last thing he wanted was for Mycroft to have died as well as John. Sherlock didn't particularly care about what had happened to himself, at present. "Mycroft's here too?"

"Of course," John frowned, and his grasp on Sherlock's hand tightened slightly, though this seemed to be an automatic reaction, something the doctor wasn't even aware of. "You should know by now that wherever you are, he'll follow, especially if he thinks it's in your best interests. Where else did you expect him to be?" he asked softly.


	8. Chapter 8

When Sherlock didn't answer, John frowned and spoke again, giving the detective's hand a squeeze. "You're starting to look quite peaky, Sherlock. Do you want a glass of water?"

No sooner had Sherlock nodded his assent did a plastic cup containing water appear in front of his face. Sherlock raised a quizzical eyebrow, causing John to roll his eyes. "Give me_ some _credit, Sherlock. I may be your housekeeper -" Sherlock frowned at that, but John smirked and carried on, "but I am still a doctor. I'm perfectly aware that people who've been asleep for as long as you have are usually in need of some water when they wake up. I looked for a straw to make it easier, but I couldn't find any, so you're just going to have to open your mouth and let me help you drink it." John moved to do just that, but Sherlock attempted to block his actions. He didn't exactly deserve John's assistance or sympathy right now, did he? He probably hadn't ever deserved it in the past either, but even Sherlock could now tell that this situation now went beyond 'a bit not good'.

John looked hurt at Sherlock's reaction, which confused the detective slightly, but he continued to feign indifference. "I have a better solution. You could just let go of my hand and let me drink it myself. I'm not a child."

A flicker of amusement passed across John's face, looking as if the doctor was trying very hard not to challenge Sherlock's last statement and call it 'debatable', but this expression was quickly replaced with confusion as the doctor looked down at their joined hands. Apparently, John hadn't even realised that he'd grabbed the detective's hand. He'd just done it instinctively. _Interesting,_ Sherlock mused, but said nothing aloud, frowning as suddenly John dropped his hand, regarding it in such a way as if it had just given him an electric shock.

"Sorry," John whispered, shifting uncomfortably and taking a tiny step away from Sherlock's bedside.

_Idiot, John. I didn't say that I_ wanted_ you to let go, just that I'm not incapable of keeping myself hydrated. _Sherlock kept that thought to himself though, and merely nodded in acknowledgement before snatching the cup, and quickly downing the contents.

"You have no reason to apologise. I'm the one who owes you _my_ apologies," Sherlock gushed, the words spilling out as soon as he finished the drink. He had to say it now before he could talk himself out it, which was a real possibility at this moment in time. He would have to show sentiment again, and become emotionally compromised once more. Could they afford that, for Sherlock to be weakened and not functioning at his optimum capacity, especially since they'd already found themselves in such a strange and disorientating situation? Either way, Sherlock knew deep down that he had to do it. They had to deal with the metaphorical 'elephant in the room' now so if John decided that he wanted he wanted them to go their separate ways, then Sherlock would have as much time as possible to convince him otherwise. Admittedly, it was an extremely selfish thing to consider, but it was a vital necessity in Sherlock's eyes.

John was frowning again, an expression that was appearing too often on their faces at the minute. "Look, Sherlock, whatever you're worrying about, stop it. It's fine, _it's all fine_."

"How can you _say_ that?" Sherlock whispered vehemently, crushing his hand around the plastic cup. "It's _not_ fine! None of this is fine! Mycroft shouldn't be here! _You_ shouldn't be here!"

John looked as if somebody had just smacked him. "Oh. Do you want me to go?" he asked, eyes flitting between the door and checking Sherlock's expression. Seemingly having answered his own question, the doctor began to move even further away from Sherlock's grasp, much to the detective's horror. If he'd been paying a bit more attention, and the situation hadn't been so desperate, then Sherlock might have noticed that John's efforts to leave were rather half-hearted and reluctant indeed, and that the doctor was torn between obliging what he _thought_ to be Sherlock's wishes, and listening to his own.

"_No!_" This time, it was Sherlock who reached out for the doctor's hand. He managed to grab it again, but winced as a pain shot through his right shoulder. It felt scraped and severely bruised, but Sherlock brushed that thought aside. It wasn't important. His body was transport, and transport only. John was much more than that. "John, don't. Please," he croaked, unused to having to voice such a plea. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I mean, I've spent the last two days wondering if you'd want to see me when you woke up, so it's only natural for you to a bit uncertain too."

"I've been asleep for two days? _Two whole days_?" interrupted Sherlock, his voice filled with disgust and incredulity. John tutted, and the detective could immediately tell that the doctor had misinterpreted the his meaning.

"Yes, two whole days, give or take a few hours. Don't worry, there's nothing physically wrong with you that would've caused you to sleep that much. I just assume that it's because you starve your body of sleep on such a regular basis that it was taking this opportunity to catch up."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, trying not to let the extent of his frustration show. "That's not what I meant, John. I'm well aware that you disapprove of my sleeping habits, but I don't think that now is either the time or the place to have _that _particular conversation again. I just don't understand why you didn't wake me." John opened his mouth in order to reiterate what he'd just said, but Sherlock raised a hand to silence him. "As a doctor, you would have been inclined to give my body as much time as possible to heal. I understood _that_," he clarified. "But I don't understand why, as my friend first and foremost, you didn't wake me. You must have been afraid here on your own. You should have woken me, and allowed me to catch up on sleep later. The later the better, preferably, but the point still stands. You wouldn't have had to go through those two days on your own. We could have dealt with this together."

There was a pause before John spoke again. "What do you mean 'this'?"

"_This_," Sherlock repeated, gesturing to the room with his spare hand. "This, as in 'dealing with wherever we are'. You must have been worried about what might happen to us."

John's brow furrowed. He was blatantly confused. "Sherlock," he began slowly. "Where exactly do you think we are?"

Sherlock sighed. He passionately hated being unsure of something, especially when he was in both a physically and mentally weakened state. "I am unsure. I've deleted everything from my mind palace regarding places and beliefs like this. I don't know the names of the various locations, or the reasons that a person is sent to them respectively, but I -"

"Sherlock, stop," John said firmly. There was a long silence before Sherlock could stand it no longer. Silence was dull, boring, predictable.

"John, I -" he began, but John cast him one of his 'end-of-discussion' looks, and Sherlock immediately shut up. Upon further inspection, Sherlock noted that John looked - quite frankly - horrified about something, some thought he'd had or realisation that had occurred.

"Oh, Sherlock," he whispered, mouth dry. "I thought you'd understand. I thought that you'd worked it out, that you'd already realised what happened."

Sherlock was confused. Was John talking to him, or to himself? The phrasing of his statements left it very ambiguous, not to mention the strange subject matter. Sherlock _had _worked it out, hadn't he? He already knew what had happened, and voiced this to John. "There's nothing to work out. Winter forced you to jump from the rooftop of that building in some kind of disturbed, warped reenactment of what I was forced to put you through in the past. You shouldn't have done it, John. You should've just him let kill me. At least you'd still be alive. I told you that your survival was the only reason that _I _fell in the first place. You shouldn't have thrown that all away doing something that I'd tried to save you from, something that I put myself through agony for in order to make sure that you were safe. Otherwise, what was the point of my fall in the first place? Your actions basically destroy any sense of purpose that my fall had."

John - who was looking 'a bit peaky' himself by this time - opened his mouth to say something, but Sherlock continued before any words could leave the doctor's mouth. He wasn't finished, and if he stopped now, then he'd never continue.

"John, once I saw Winter forced you to do, I couldn't hold myself back any more. I lunged at him, knowing that he had your gun. I don't recall if I was particularly concerned with the possibility of being shot, or not. I didn't think he'd actually shoot me, but obviously I was wrong," Sherlock said, gesturing to himself, and therefore his current predicament. "It's not a common occurrence, but it does happen nonetheless, especially when I've been emotionally compromised, something which definitely occurred at that damn building. He shot me, and killed me, and now we've been reunited in...well, wherever this is. There, it's obvious."

John gulped, but forced himself to look Sherlock in the eye. There were so many different emotions being expressed in John's eyes - showing various shades of dark and dangerous thoughts and feelings - that Sherlock began to feel a little overwhelmed. John cared about him so much, and Sherlock had simply let him down. Again. "Did - did you watch all of the video, Sherlock?"

Sherlock shook his head gently without breaking eye contact. "No, but I think that I saw quite enough to ascertain a correct analysis of the situation."

John closed his eyes, exhaled deeply, and ran a hand through his hair awkwardly. "That's the thing, you see, Sherlock. I don't think you did. Tell me, what was the last thing you saw?"

That really wasn't a difficult question. The memory of the video file would be imprinted in Sherlock's mind. "You looked directly at the camera and said that I didn't need you anymore," he replied softly, trying not to let the absurdity of that statement show at present. That particular one of John's mistaken beliefs could be dealt with at a later date.

John raised a quizzical eyebrow. "Really? That's the last thing you saw?"

"Yes, I -" Sherlock broke off and coughed awkwardly. "I couldn't watch any more than that. I couldn't hold myself back any longer. I'm afraid I succumbed to my weakness. I lunged at Winter and went in for the kill, if you like. Quite literally, in fact. I went for him because he - he killed you." Sherlock's voice failed him at that point.

John nodded curtly, in a way that was reminiscent of the way that he'd nodded after saying what he believed to be his final goodbye to Sherlock in the cemetery. It was the nod that signified that the doctor was resigned to doing something, whether he wanted to or not. This particular moment - whatever John said in it - was going to be pivotal and monumental. It didn't take the intellectual prowess of a Holmes brother to work _that_ out. John took a deep breath and began.

"Sherlock, I need you to listen to me. We can deal with the other stuff later, but you have to hear this. _Mycroft_ is not dead. _You _are not dead._ I_ am not dead."

There was only one option left open to Sherlock upon hearing that. He would retreat into his mind palace for safety whilst he tried to process what he had just heard. As he did just that, a shell-shocked Sherlock noted that John gave the distinct impression of somebody who would have added Irene's trademark quip of 'let's have dinner' to the end of that statement, had the situation not been so serious.


End file.
